


Cost of Doing Business

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Series: Paternoster Row: the spinoff [10]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1706876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our heroines, at long last, discover the lead they've been searching for. One last, fatal confrontation with a Dalek awaits them. Can they stop its fiendish plan before it's too late?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cost of Doing Business

**Author's Note:**

> Insofar as I have envisioned it, this marks the end of Season One of Paternoster Row. There will be a pair of somewhat longer 'special' episodes posted at some time in the future, followed by a (short-ish?) hiatus so that I can finish writing Season Two (and the lovely Imaginary_Golux can beta-read it), and then with any luck, Season Two will start posting at semi-regular intervals. I am afraid that I cannot be any more definite than that, since the next few weeks are going to be kind of crazy for me. (That is, in fact, why I have posted this now.) 
> 
> In case anyone is interested in looking that far ahead, I do have some fairly rough plans for Season Three, but we aren't anywhere close to that point yet. There will almost certainly be a Season Three (though it may take some time), unless the BBC announces a spinoff before then (unlikely), in which case I shan't tread on their toes.

“It was very considerate of Scotland Yard to let us take so much of the paperwork from the laundry and the baby farm,” Vastra observes as they spread the papers out across every flat surface in the library.

“To be fair, madame, they have an awful lot of ferrying children back home to do, not to mention the digging,” Jenny notes. “Yes, that group of maps, Anaya.”

Anaya nods and tacks up the map of the greater London area, then begins placing colored pushpins wherever the baby farm made a delivery to the Dalek. “Looks like they form a neat little cluster,” she notes, gesturing to the edge of town. 

“Good, good,” Vastra murmurs. “Now, are there any large, abandoned buildings nearby?”

“Looks like an old factory here,” Anaya points out, already starting to feel the twitches of excitement that accompany an investigation. After spending so long searching in vain, everything seems to be wrapping up rather quickly, and the pace is a bit heady.

“Looks good,” Jenny says as she and Strax leave to gather weapons and equipment, with Henry tagging along after. 

***

“I wonder what this Dalek wants all those kids for,” Jenny asks rhetorically. “What can you do with kids and a busted time tunneler?”

Strax mulls this over for a moment, then raises a triumphant finger. “Vaporize one's enemies!”

“Yes, Strax, it is a Dalek—we had gotten that far.”

“It could brainwash the juveniles, then send them into the past so that it would have a ready-grown army when they reached maturity,” Strax offers.

“Strax, don't be—” Jenny pauses. “Well, that actually isn't too dreadfully insane.” She and Henry share a laugh. “Well, at least not by Dalek standards. I should probably be worried about that.” Strax beams. To be compared favorably to a Dalek in terms of tactical ability is a fine complement, and despite his odious (yet curiously satisfying) new profession of helping miserable Earthlings, he does like to keep up his martial abilities. One never knew when one would be called upon to charge into the teeth of enemy fire.

Henry winks. “I'll keep old Strax here in line.”

“No, you won't,” Jenny replies. “You'll be sitting this one out, you and Anaya and Nellie. And Dr. Doyle, for that matter, though I rather expect he won't regret missing the chance to meet a Dalek up close and personal again, once being more than enough for most folks.” She gave a weak laugh. “Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that they'd sooner exterminate you than look at you. Not quite what we meant by enemies you can't fight with a sword,” she notes, wrinkling her nose. Did they still have that old personal forcefield?

“Please?” Henry begs, the light of battle glinting in his eyes. “I've been looking for this blasted Dalek for so long.”

“No,” Jenny replies firmly. “Not least because madame'd skin me alive for even thinking about it.” Henry can tell that there is no arguing or cajoling to be done here. “Spend time with your brothers, or with Nellie and her kid. Enjoy your youth.”

“Not that much older than me,” Henry tries half-heartedly.

“But I am a trained fighter,” Jenny counters. “Nice try.” As he turns, Jenny shakes her head. How in blazes did she find herself looking after three kids, practically her own age? 

***

“It's times like these that I feel better about overcharging our wealthiest clients,” Vastra observes, “for, sadly, blasting the occasional Dalek into oblivion is not what you might call paying work, nor is it easy.”

“Does seem like an awful hassle,” Anaya notes. “We've been running after this thing for months, now.” She hesitates. “You don't think it was changing the dictionaries, do you?”

Vastra shakes her head. “That seems too subtle for a Dalek by far. While it might have the capability to tamper with reality, I doubt it would have the inclination to do so in such a trivial fashion. I expect that there have been other changes, too minute for even we to detect in our haste and our busy schedule.” She sighs. “I do wonder what its plan is—I might wish that it were something as simple as playing with words. Or even,” she adds with a smile, “playing with swords.”

Anaya groans at the pun, and Vastra politely pretends not to notice. “Come back safe,” she says, suddenly sober. “Both of you.” Anaya knows she doesn't have the skills to protect herself in a fight. She might wish she did, but she would not enjoy the necessity the way that Vastra, or even Jenny seem to, preferring not to need to fight. Still, she cannot help but wish herself along as though she would do anything more than get in the way and serve as a liability. She sighs. Perhaps she will have Jenny teach her a few of the basics of self-defense—Nellie's disappearance has highlighted her own vulnerability. 

“We most certainly shall,” Vastra promises her.

***

Jenny, Vastra, and Strax pile out of the carriage, festooned with weapons and gadgets. “Old catsuit's getting quite a workout,” Jenny notes.

“It can take as long a break as it likes when we get back,” Vastra replies with a salacious grin.

“Madame, I must insist that you cease flirting with the boy while we are in combat maneuvers!” Strax shouts. Jenny and Vastra both roll their eyes, but remain silent as they reach the rear of the dilapidated factory. 

“It's not locked,” Jenny marvels as they enter. She peers into the strange shadows cast by broken machines for any traces of the Dalek.

“Light up ahead,” Vastra observes, and points to bright, electric light. “And children's voices.” Strax covers them with his plasma rifle as they slowly advance, but his caution is for naught—there is no trace of the alien from Skaro.

The children, about twenty of them between the ages of twelve and seventeen, wearing silver collars about their necks, stop what they are doing, and gawk at the three intruders. “It's alright,” Jenny says, stepping forward as the least threatening member of the party, “we're here to help you.”

Most of them still shrink away from them until one boy pipes up. “Are you the Veiled Detective? I heard she was a bit funny looking under all that cloth—no offense, marm,” he adds hastily.

“None taken,” Vastra replies icily, but genuinely meaning it, for the room seems to have warmed considerably to her. “I am indeed she,” Vastra proclaims, drawing herself erect, “and these are my assistants. And we've come to get you out of here.”

“You'll have to get us out of these, first,” a girl replies, pointing at her neck. “Shocks you something awful if you try to leave.”

“Slave collars,” Vastra hisses.

“Only the most cowardly of Rutan scum would use such a device,” Strax adds as he scans the nearest child. “Simple enough to disrupt, however,” he adds, producing another device and jabbing it at the collar. Sparks fly, and the lad yelps in surprise, but he is unharmed and the collar lies smoking on the ground. He moves to the next and the next as Jenny and Vastra keep wary eyes on the perimeter of the open space, laser pistols in hand.

“What have you been building?” Vastra asks the oldest children once they are freed.

“No idea,” says a boy, shaking his head. “Whatever the devil that thing is,” he adds, nodding towards a large, metallic machine. Its outer casing appears to have been cobbled together from scrap metal using the tools strewn about, but the time tunneler is clearly visible and the bulky machine looks complete. It seems they have arrived just in time.

“Sounded like he was almost done, too,” a girl chimes in. “Something about time portals and invasion fleets.” She frowns. “Didn't sound French, though, or Prussian.”

“Thank you,” Vastra says. “Now please, go, quickly.” They are lucky that the children are still alive so far, but if the Dalek should return now, there would be a catastrophic bloodbath.

“Follow Strax,” Jenny adds. “He'll protect you. Won't you, Strax? And stay with them.”

“Yes, boy,” Strax mutters, toying with a grenade like it was a string of worry beads. “This way, infants! Rejoice in your noncombatant status, for otherwise I should have disintegrated the lot of you.” With a murmur of nervous laughter, the children trail after Strax at a good clip.

Just behind Jenny and Vastra, there is a bang and a flash of light, and they turn, pistols raised.

“Hello,” the handsome figure greets them, drawing his own weapon. “Nice to meet you too.”

***

“I'll hold him,” Anaya says as they reach the door of the Sanders family home. “Your parents are going to want to hug the blazes out of you, and we don't want little Neville getting crushed to death. Now go on, we're right behind you,” she adds soothingly.

“You'll be just fine,” Henry continues, fumbling, as Nellie raps on the door.

“Who the devil,” mutters Greg Sanders, “is calling at this hour? Nearly dinnertime,” he concludes as he opens the door. “Nellie?” he asks, dumbfounded, before pulling her into his arms. “Nellie!” he cries. “For god's sake, come in, the lot of you. I should belt you black and blue for taking ten years off my life like that,” he says with a wink, “but I'm far too happy. Who are your friends?” he asks. “I'm afraid I've plum forgot my manners, and I hope you have quite the story to tell,” 

“Over dinner,” Janet interjects. “The young ones are starving.” This may well be true, Anaya thinks, but at the moment the young ones are dancing around Nellie's legs like she is a maypole. 

“This is Henry,” Nellie begins. “And this is Anaya. And this is Neville, my son.” Now it is Nellie's mother's turn to nearly faint, but she soon recovers, and clamors to see her new grandbaby.

“You will stay for dinner, won't you?” Janet offers. “It's the least we can do, since you brought our daughter back home.” 

“Of course,” Anaya replies, deeming it ruder to refuse, and she and Henry volunteer to help with the preparation. Somehow, the Sanders' dining room table is big enough to hold the lot of them, and almost no-one gets an elbow in an uncomfortable place during the whole meal, during which Nellie and her friends recount their tale of the past few months. She had forgotten what a proper family meal feels like, Anaya realizes. It's really quite pleasant, though she and her friends don't always have time to eat together. And now, she supposes, her friends and their children. Haven't really thought about raising a family, she thinks. Would Mirabelle want to adopt? Do I want to adopt? Do I want to have children of my own flesh-and-blood? How many? Anaya blinks at the dizzying questions and passes Henry the salt.

After dinner, of course, the household dissolves back into chaos. None of the younger three Sanders siblings want to do anything but play with their new nephew. “We could take him with us for an hour or two,” Henry offers gallantly. “You'll probably want to catch up with Nellie, after all.” Anaya is a little impressed; she wouldn't have thought he'd have volunteered to spend time with a small child so readily. Well, perhaps she'd have to reevaluate her opinion of her friend. 

***

“And who, pray tell, are you?” Vastra asks, unruffled.

“John Clay, entrepreneur.” He says the title as though he had gotten the word mixed up with 'emperor.' “And somewhat inadvertent time traveler, same as you.” He runs his free hand through his hair as he examines them, scarcely hiding his disgust. “Let's see...human-Silurian couples don't become common until the early 3300s. Filthy things, though at least the two of you can't produce any half-breed, tainted offspring. And that tacky leather catsuit screams thirty-three eighties. You're almost fifteen-hundred years out of date.”

“And presumably you're even further away,” Vastra counters. Let the little man believe what he likes. “What draws you here?”

“Business, mostly. I suppose it can't hurt to tell you—it's not likely that we're in direct competition.” He gives them an unnerving grin. “I was visiting our R&D department—they were doing some work on the practical aspects of time travel. All of a sudden, a corridor through space and time opened up—we were just barely able to stabilize it. Replicating it was out of the question. So I held it open, and figured that I might as well make a few profitable changes to offset the energy costs.”

“Why come through?” Jenny asks. Especially if you're just going to look down at us, she thinks. Lucky I didn't blow your head open, things you've been saying. 

“There was an unexpected fluctuation in the perimeter,” he tosses off airily. By accident, Jenny translates in her head. She's gotten pretty good at parsing jargon, between Doyle and all the aliens. “Though this device looks like it could get me home again,” he muses.

Vastra shakes her head. “We must disable it, permanently, and quickly.”

Clay holds up his hand, signaling stop. “Now, now, let's not be hasty. Let's sit down and negotiate,” he says. “See, I'll even holster my gun.”

Just then, Jenny hears the sound of an approaching Dalek. “Madame, we have to go, now,” she says, and grabs Vastra's hand as they run.

***

“We've got to drop this kid somewhere,” Anaya grumps. Not that she doesn't enjoy the tyke—though on second thought she might wait a few years before taking one on as a full-time responsibility—it's just...

“We've hardly had him any time at all,” Henry counters, and gives the babe a bounce in his arms. “I'm growing rather fond of little Nev, actually.”

Before Anaya can respond, a middle-aged woman interrupts. “What a cute family the three of you make!” She coos at Neville. “And you look just like your papa! Good day!”

Anaya coughs pointedly. “No, you're probably right,” Henry admits. “Hasn't Doyle got a little girl about the right age?” 

“Yes, I think so—let's go,” Anaya says, and follows Henry through the crowd. 

“Louisa!” Anaya says as they reach the Doyles' home, “So good to meet you at last,” she says, embracing the slightly-built, wan woman. 

“He's not ours,” Henry explains. “Friend of ours is all.” He flushes. “Were actually hoping you'd keep an eye on him for a little while, so we can run an errand.”

“Of course,” the Doyles chorus.

“Little Mary Louise will be glad for a playmate,” Doyle assures them.

“We'll be back in half an hour,” Anaya promises on the way out.

“Right, so who did you want to visit, again?” Henry asks as they near their destination.

“Rachel Beer,” Anaya explains. “She's a journalist, and she just might be interested in Nellie's story.”

“You don't think this one is going to wind up in one of Doyle's mysteries, do you?” Henry asks, and knocks on the door.

“No, I don't,” Anaya says grimly. “And it needs to be told.” 

The door opens to reveal Rachel's pleasantly surprised face. “Is everything alright?” She asks. “No more children being abducted by fairies, I hope.”

“Not as such, Rachel,” Anaya says. “We'll tell you about it inside.”

***

Jenny and Vastra duck away from the impeding Dalek only to circle around and watch from behind as it meets with Clay. “Who are you?” it squawks angrily. 

“John Clay, entrepreneur,” he repeats. “Quite a fascinating piece of equipment you have here.”

“That is no concern of yours,” the Dalek tells him.

“I reckon it is, since it's the time tunneler that brought me here, and I want to use it to get back home.”

The Dalek's gunstick flicks up to aim at Clay's head. “Where are my slaves? Why shouldn't I exterminate you, human filth?”

“Says the part-human itself,” Clay scoffs, blowing on his nails. “You're no better than the rest of the mongrels...but you have got such shiny toys. Tell you what: there are people looking for you, a human like me, but a girl, and a Silurian woman. They were the ones who relieved you of your human capital. I'll protect you while you use the time-tunneler, and then I can go where I please with it.”

“You would betray the humans?” caws the Dalek with something approximating mirth.

“I'd betray anyone for the right price, let alone a filthy blood-mixer like that wretch!” Clay spits on the floor. “Do we have ourselves an arrangement?” Clay asks, voice as slimy as the Dalek's skin.

“We do, human scum.” The Dalek pauses. “You would make a good Dalek.” It returns to putting the final touches on the machine. 

“Not interested in conversion, thanks,” Clay replies to the Dalek's back. Arrogant creature, he thinks. Still, at least it was willing to listen to reason and simple business sense, despite its inhumanity, and, as usual, he had gotten his way. Proof positive of his superior human capabilities.

“We need to lure them away,” Jenny whispers. Vastra nods her agreement, then uses her tongue to knock over a rack of tools.

The Dalek's eyestalk immediately swivels to face the clatter. “Find them! Find them! Exterminate them!” it cries.

“What, me?” Clay asks, alarmed. Truth be told, he hadn't expected to do any work when he made the agreement; who would be foolish enough to attach a Dalek head-on? Well, apparently the filthy lizard-woman and her pet space heater. Exterminate was the right word for vermin like them.

The Dalek aims its gunstick back at Clay. “Yes.” The single word and flat, electronic voice leave no avenue for argument, and Clay unholsters his weapon, cursing under his breath as he moves off into the deep shadows cast by the rusting machines.

Vastra deliberately peeks out from behind a hulking piece of metal, drawing a blaster-bolt and Clay's attention. Grinning, she draws him further into the factory. This will be easy as one-two-three, she thinks. Now, if Jenny can just lure away the Dalek...

Jenny, meanwhile, sneaks back to watch the Dalek as it works the time-tunneler. “Contact with main Dalek fleet established,” it crows triumphantly. 

“Report!” booms the Dalek leader.

“Scout designated 87-Gamma has completed survey of planet pursuant to invasion plans.”

“Excellent! Excellent!” replies the Dalek leader. “Return so that the invasion may begin.”

Dalek invasion? Jenny thinks. Doesn't sound good. She sighs, and draws her pistol. I'll just have to chance it, she thinks, just as Vastra returns, frogmarching Clay ahead of her. “Surrender,” Vastra demands, one weapon aimed at Clay, the other at the Dalek.

“I accept,” screeches the Dalek. Jenny blinks; she hadn't thought Daleks possessed senses of humor. 

“Aren't you going to ask her to release me?” Clay asks nervously.

“No.” The Dalek blasts him as it says this. Vastra, hardly surprised, opens fire with both guns as she spins away. The Dalek, equally unfazed by what it has done as by the laser bolts, glides away malevolently.

As it leaves, Jenny sprints for the time-tunneler. “First things first,” she mutters, switching off the visual link to the Dalek ship. Now they wouldn't be able to see what she was doing, she thought, grinning. “Just need to adjust the coordinates, very slightly...” So slightly that she hoped the Dalek wouldn't notice that instead of beaming onto the main deck of the Dalek ship, it would open up into the bowels of its warp-drive. She smiled viciously. So handy of the Daleks to include such precise schematics in their machines. Now to get the hell out of here, she thinks, and races away.

***

In some ways, Vastra reflects, this will theoretically be easier than what she had done with Clay. Granted, Clay would be easier to take down in a fight—she was a trained warrior, and he was a bully with a gun. It had been no trouble to get the drop on him, knock the weapon from his hand, and snatch it up again with her tongue. However, the fact that she can't harm the Dalek directly does not bother her—all she has to do is get away from a slow-moving, short, metal dome with no peripheral vision. She smirks. This was going to be too easy. The only hard part is keeping its attention long enough for Jenny to do something extremely clever—that she would do something clever Vastra does not doubt. She springs up from her hiding place and blasts the Dalek before leaping away. Decades of hunting instincts and fighting reflexes guide her as she leads the Dalek on a merry chase. Then, once she is satisfied that Jenny has had enough time to do what she needed and get safely away, she sprints, unseen, for the exit. 

***

The Dalek, having lost its quarry, returns to the time-tunneler, still upbeat. One human already exterminated, with an invasion soon to come. If a Dalek were capable of celebratory dancing, this one would perform such a dance. It fires up the time-tunneler, sparing no more than a cursory glance at it; after all, the primitives would have been able to sabotage it in only the most obvious fashion, and it still works perfectly. “Engage time-tunneler! Engage!” it calls to nobody in particular.

***

Once outside, Jenny waved to her from a copse of trees. “Well?” she asks her lover as they duck behind a large, ancient elm. “Permit me to guess: did you engage the self-destruct on the time-tunneler?”

Jenny shakes her head sadly. “I'm afraid the Dalek is going to teleport onto that Dalek ship, and that will be that.”

Vastra tries not to look too outraged; she has acquired a certain sense of when her ape is, well, monkeying around. But she plays along anyway. “How could you? We shall all perish!”

Jenny grins. “To be fair, madame, if I did my work correctly, it should wind up in the heart of the warp-drive, blowing itself, the ship, and everything in that factory to kingdom come.”

“My clever, brave Jenny,” Vastra proclaims, pulling her into a kiss as the factory explodes behind them. They remain there for several minutes, waiting out any secondary explosions behind their wooden guardian, and not at all because of the wonderful feeling of Jenny's warm, lithe body inside her catsuit against Vastra's body. No, Vastra thinks, most certainly not. At last they return to Strax and his young charges, Jenny's hair a bit mussed, but otherwise none the worse for wear.

“And so the young Sontaran warrior defeated his foes on the field of battle, was promoted to Major for his valor and skill, and lived to a ripe old age before dying gloriously!” Strax concludes. “Greetings, earth scum! I take it your errand has met with success? I, meanwhile, have acquitted myself masterfully, distracting the human spawn with a traditional Sontaran coming-of-age tale.” Jenny and Vastra's jaws drop early on as they see the children, most of whom are terrified, some to the point of curling up and weeping, and they remain flabbergasted as Strax, evidently utterly pleased with himself, rambles on. 

“Strax, we really must teach you some proper Earth tales,” Vastra begins delicately.

“Who wants to come back to London with me?” Jenny asks the kids. “Promise I'll take you away from nasty Mr. Strax and you shan't have to see him again.”

“Promise?” One of the kids asks.

“Promise.” Jenny affirms. “I think we can just about fit the lot of you on the carriage if you pack in cozy and we leave a certain someone to walk home.” She glares meaningfully at Strax.

“What about the Dalek?” another queries.

“You don't have to worry about that, either,” Jenny says, looking back at the still-burning factory. “Come on now, what do you say to a nice, slow carriage ride, followed by a cup of tea, maybe a bath and a bite to eat if you like, and then a good night's sleep.” The children, still a bit shaken, look among themselves, quickly coming to a nodding consensus. Hot tea and no aliens sounds about two steps from paradise at the moment to most of them. Jenny reckons they've got enough spare blankets and pillows to put the lot of them up, even if they have to camp out on the floor. Most of them look exhausted enough that they're likely to pass out on the way home, bumpy and crowded as it is. 

It's a tight squeeze, and Strax has trudged quite a ways down the road by the time they catch up to him, but in the end they pack everyone in, with most of the littler ones occupying a lap. Uncomfortable for everyone, but it's not for long, and everyone feels relieved enough not to care. 

***

Two hours later, most of the kids have been washed, fed, and put to bed, leaving Jenny and Vastra alone on the porch. Jenny playfully puts her finger to her lips as Henry and Anaya approach. “Still alive, I see,” Anaya observes quietly but jokingly.

“And the same with you,” Jenny replies, and they cannot help but laugh.

“Are we staking someone out?” Henry whispers.

“No,” Vastra replies. “We are carefully not waking the seventeen children camped out across our floor.”

“You rescued them, then?” Anaya asks between stifled giggles.

“Yup,” Jenny confirms.

“And gave that Dalek the what for?” Henry asks.

“Gave a whole shipload of Daleks the what for,” Jenny corrects him with a wink.

“Must have been pretty exciting,” Henry says regretfully. 

“And what have you been doing?” Vastra inquires.

“Looked after Nellie's baby and met her family,” Anaya begins. “And then we paid a visit to an old friend of ours: Rachel Beer.”

Jenny beams. “Nellie did say she wanted to tell her story.”

“No guarantee that it gets published, of course,” Anaya admits, “but it's the least we could do.”

“I expect that it might count for quite a lot,” Vastra muses.

“How does that work?” Henry asks. “You've been to the future with the Doctor; did we change it? Stamp out hatred a few years early and all that?”

“I honestly do not know,” Vastra admits. “But I suppose it cannot hurt.”

“We actually met someone from the future today,” Jenny reveals. “Name of John Clay. Banal little money-grubbing bigot if ever there was one. Probably the last person you'd want meddling with the course of history, and yet there he was, fiddling with this and that. Dead now, and probably deserves it. But I reckon there are still plenty of nasty folks like him out there. Might be fewer, now, though,” and the thought causes them all to smile a little proudly.

“Is that why you help people?” Henry asks. “To change the future?”

“In part,” Vastra allows.

“Seems a shame you can't reach into the past, and make the present a little nicer,” Henry snorts.

“I suppose it certainly seems that way,” Vastra admits. “But I would shudder to have the powers of a god, even for a moment. Indeed, such power would demand the responsibility of a god, and I know that I am imperfectly just, that I am flawed—no matter what Jenny may say from time to time.” The two women share a smile. “Could I resist the temptation to abuse that power? I should not care to be put to the test. For all that the Doctor seems to enjoy his endless wandering and tinkering with the fabric of time—and I do not begrudge him it—I am quite content where I am.”

“The money's good too,” Jenny adds with a wink as she curls against Vastra. “But that's not everything either. I suppose it really does come back to the thrill of the chase, righting a wrong, saving a life. Saved a lot of lives today, I reckon,” Jenny realizes suddenly. “Hope they'll put that second chance to good use,” she concludes.

“If I might ask,” Anaya begins, “In what way was this John Clay bigoted?”

“Every way, most like,” Jenny spits.

“But his bete noire appeared to be interspecies marriage,” Vastra clarifies. “Not that I intend to let his opinion stop me,” she adds, putting a proprietary arm around Jenny.

“Which reminds me, we really should get to work on that,” Jenny nags.

Vastra rolls her eyes. “It hardly seems worthwhile to set a date when the Doctor is likely to be involved.”

“Still,” Jenny counters, “I shouldn't mind doing the planning with you. Find a nice place to do it, pick out flowers...” She wrinkles her nose. “We still haven't figured out who's going to wear the dress,” she points out, and Henry and Anaya look down at the couple, still clad in uniform and catsuit, and laugh. 

“You will let us come along for that, won't you?” Anaya asks.

“Not too dangerous for us kids?” Henry fills in, half-teasing.

Vastra blinks. “Are weddings usually adult-only affairs among humans?” She turns to Jenny. “You said at the play that an orgy would be atypical! I shall be very disappointed if you have been misleading me all this time.”

Jenny coughs. It is when Vastra is at her most outrageous that Jenny seems to have the hardest time telling if she is pulling her leg or not. “No, madame, orgies are not part of your average wedding festivities. Drinking and dancing, but usually not fornicating.”

“Well, that is quite acceptable, then,” Vastra concludes with a brisk nod. “You are both invited, then, and Nellie, of course, and Strax and Dr. Doyle as well. Why, we shall have a tidy little gathering!”

“So we shall, madame,” Jenny agrees. “I look forward to it.”

**Author's Note:**

> John Clay is loosely based off of the antagonist from The Adventure of the Red-Headed League, insofar as they share a name and a bigoted, unscrupulous outlook on life.
> 
> I don't know that I've talked about Arthur Conan Doyle's family in the notes at all, though there have been mentions of them before now. At any rate, at this point in his life, he is married to Louisa Hawkins, with one daughter, Mary Louise. Mary Louise is three, but I can't seem to find a date of birth for Louisa; if anyone can help me on that front, I should be very grateful. Otherwise, I imagine that she is in her late twenties.
> 
> And that does it for the literary and historical notes for this one.


End file.
